


Tainted

by pastelryden



Category: Original Work
Genre: 1980s, Blood, Blood Drinking, Happy Ending, Homophobia, M/M, Short Story, Vampires, Werewolves, fashion - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 09:51:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14186295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pastelryden/pseuds/pastelryden
Summary: Nikolai Volkov, a Russian-born fashion designing vampire, finds himself in a restraining situation, whether it be from the new wave of homophobia, or from the feelings he has for his model, Vincent.(This is a short story I wrote for English class. Some grammar may be off, and the ending may seem a little rushed. Other than that, I take pride in this. Enjoy!)





	Tainted

My thirst for the blood of the most wicked grows every waking moment.

And here I am, sitting in the moonlight that welcomes itself through my windows, feeling as if I am going to perish. It’s been God knows how many nights since I’ve fed on a human, or really, anything bigger than the rats that crawl through the urban landscape of Los Angeles.

Since settling here, the city’s nightlife has gotten more and more active. Now, it’s frustratingly hard to safely feed on someone, hard to not get caught. I can’t just seduce a man, lure him into a public bathroom, and bite his neck anymore. Someone will see his blood dripping onto the tiles below us, then they’ll force the stall door open and see me, fangs out, and him, as pale as me from the blood loss. Then they’ll scream.

As I lounge on my couch, I watch the news. This is routine for me at this point. And for the fourth time this week (it’s Wednesday, September seventeenth), the same man shows up in the same suit, and talks about what he refers to as the “gay plague”.

Coincidentally, this man had done an interview on the news about six days before my shop got vandalized last year. Someone had thrown a brick through the window, and tore apart garments of clothing that I had spent weeks, perhaps months on making. Not to mention, they spray painted some distasteful language over my walls. I was absolutely devastated at the time.

The man is still on the television, with his stupid suit and his stupid hair, claiming that gays are going to Hell, and the “plague” was bestowed upon us by God. How the channel hasn’t cut him off yet amazes me. I can’t tell if he’s a pastor or a very biased doctor at this point.

“I think we’re going over our time now, fella,” says the anchorman. Pastor-Doctor nods his head and sighs before the camera cuts back to the main desk. “And now the weather.”

The cool autumn breeze follows me through the open windows of my studio apartment. My hair keeps pushing into my face, with force that I wouldn’t expect with how fast the wind is going. The wind brings with it the scent of human blood, and I am ever so considering going down there and feeding on the first person I see. Man, woman, child, anything. I don’t care.

Five minutes later, and I’m down on the streets.

What I thought was “overcrowding” in eighteenth century St. Petersburg has absolutely nothing on this single street. So many people I could feed off of, but how could I choose? I could just attack a person out of nowhere, or I could lure one in, siren-style. The latter is more fun to me, though.

The richer men, they like to hang out around here at night. They have no job that is five days of the week, so they drink and smoke and gamble, all while laughing in the face of their middle-class bartender. While I am better off than many people, I’m not like that. I’m targeting the greedy tonight. Luckily, I’ve been to this bar before, and it is rarely busy at this time of night.

You see, I’ve mastered the art of getting people to follow me to secluded areas. All you need to is promise them something that they want- drugs, sex, money, anything. And for some reason, they’ll almost always believe you. You just have to waste some time, wait for them to wish for something. Then you hover over, and tell them that if they follow you to the washroom, you’ll give them what they desire. Obviously it’s harder to do now, but still, I manage on a rare occasion.

I’m a bit of a con artist, really.

Today’s subject is big and tall and a silver fox. Not my type, but he’ll do for today. He wants to do some more lines, but he ran out of his supply. “I have it if you’ve got the money,” I say. “Just follow me to the men’s room and we’ll do business.”

The man believes me, and takes out of few hundred dollar bills from his wallet. I motion him to follow me, and he does.

When we make it into the washroom, the man is sweating and keeps checking the time on his watch. “So, are you gonna give me it or not?” He asks, getting impatient.

At this point the thirst for blood is so intense that I just strike him down the exact moment I have the chance. He’s gasping for air, and when he tries to call for help, I cover his mouth with my hand. I watch the colour from his body slowly get sapped away as I continue to feed. His body goes limp after a few minutes, and I let the corpse of the corporate demon fall to the floor. And now, I realize that I have to escape the bar.

Awkwardly, I move out of the washroom and keep up against the wall. Everything that says that vampires can be invisible is a lie. That would make things much easier.

I find myself back in the street, crimson liquid dripping from my mouth and off my chin. No one questions it, not bothering to take the time to look. The run back to my apartment is brisk in manner, and I’m hoping that none of this blood is noticed, or and in an even worse scenario, drips onto this faux-fur coat I spent three whole weeks on making.

Being the idiot I am, I take my sweet precious time to check my mailbox before going in. There’s a single envelope in it.

“To: Nikolai Volkov  
Room 192, 901 S Broadway, Los Angeles, CA

Mr. Volkov,  
We can no longer provide you with materials. After hearing rumours that you are a homosexual, we cannot take any chances. Not only do you go against our beliefs, but we also do not want to take the risk of you infecting our store and other customers.

It has been nice doing business with you.  
The Fabric Fantasy Downtown inc.  
959 Santee St, Los Angeles, CA”

Needless to say, I am extremely infuriated. Who do they think I am? They think that they can just take away my privileges whenever they want?

Fame has been dressed with my clothing line. Queen, Wham!, Bowie, many more. A member of The Replacements could play a show dressed in Sanguine and after the news was spread, I’d make more money in a week than I did in months prior to it.

I am also quite bothered because other than make my own fabric, I do everything for this brand. I design it, make it, sell it. God, I’ll even put on makeup and stuff my shirt with two baseballs to model some of it.

One could say, “But Nikolai, couldn’t you just go to another fabric store?”. Of course I could, but I trusted these people. They were quite frankly all over me until they heard I was gay. Which is true, but no reason to refuse me service. I find it funny how this is what they exclude me for that rather than the fact I’m a literal vampire. I’ve fed on their employees, and still, this is the breaking point for them?

I’ll show them I don’t need them. I can be successful without them. But for now, I’ll just punch a wall and bruise my knuckles.

When I wake up it’s still Wednesday, and I’ve woken up at about four PM. The sun is still shining bright, so I refuse to go outside. If I stay out in such light long enough, I’ll start to die.

And I’ll admit, I’ve considered trying.

My store is open from about five to nine. I’ll take the most dark route I can to get there. I take a good, unfortunate look into my mirror, and still appear to look starved. My eyes are hollowed in. I look more inhuman every time I take a glance at myself. Not that anyone cares, though.

I’m walking through the alleyways of downtown L.A, which are just as crowded as the open streets. The only difference is, most people who take up the sidewalk have good lives. Every time I walk through here, I’m stared at by the masses, who simply don’t understand how someone dressed in such designer clothes would walk through the part of downtown where there are more discarded needles on the ground than pieces of broken pavement.

How I would feed on these people if I wasn’t afraid of what’s in their system.

I enter my shop through a grimy-looking side door which is certainly not something the general public has to see. It clashes with the fresh-but-edgy look that the actual storefront has.

I brand my clothes as a mix between the street style I’ve observed over the years, and the charm of glam rock fashion. Compared to other designer clothing companies like Gucci and Prada, I’m quite affordable. In my self-absorbed opinion, my clothes are better in general.

Before today, no one has ever shown up at exactly five. It’s sad that I’ve never seen this before, but I am mesmerized by the boy who comes walking in. He’s tall, with tan skin and messy hair that is a clearly artificial neon green. While he should be showing confidence, he looks very intimidated.

“Excuse me,” I hear him say. He’s looking at me from the door. “Do you have anything that would look good for a job interview?”

I walk out from behind the counter, and getting a closer look at him, it looks as if he hasn’t slept in days. Poor thing must be losing sleep because of this interview. “Probably,” I say. “We have blazers and slacks, and other things that would likely look acceptable.”

The boy takes the first semiformal piece of clothing he sees back to the counter. “That would be two hundred dollars,” I tell him.

And then, the boy proceeds to cry.

I’m frozen in fear right now, watching him hunched over the counter with tears coming from his eyes. “Listen,” He mumbles out. “I have been sleeping on couches for the past three months, and no one will take me anymore. If I don’t get a job I’ll be homeless, which I’m sure you’ve never experienced-”

“Excuse me? I lived on the street for decades. None of this money was passed to me at the beginning,” I but in.

“Sorry. I only have one hundred and fifty dollars left now from my previous job, and this is really my only chance to save myself.”

The boy is struggling, and I understand that. I spend a good forty years of the eighteen hundreds alone, cold, and hungry. I’ve only had this company since the thirties, and it only picked up in popularity in the late sixties.

“I’ll give you it for free, if you want,” I tell him. He looks confused.

“No, no, you shouldn’t do that-”

“Did I say I’m accepting any arguments? You’re taking this, and you’re going to march yourself into that interview, and you’re going to get that job. And if you want, I have another job for you.”

The boy just nods his head. Perhaps he’s intimidated by my assertiveness. I give him the deep blue blazer I promised he would receive for free. “What’s the job?” He asks.  
“I need someone to model for me. You know, I put you in my clothes, you pose and get your picture taken, then it’s printed and put in different places,” I tell him. “Of course you don’t need to take the offer right now, but if you want it, you know where I am.”

He nods his head, and thanks me for everything that I’ve done, which in my opinion, isn’t much. I watch him make his way out of my shop, and now continue to wait for more customers (or lack thereof).

Six days later, and the boy shows up at my shop, with the same hollow look on his face that was there when I last saw him. I guess he didn’t get the job. “Nikolai?” He calls for me.

I simply look over to him, and I’d respond with his name if I knew it. “I didn’t get the job, so I wanted to return the blazer,” He says. “And your job offer, how much do you pay?”

“A hundred dollars an hour, and each photoshoot only would last a couple of hours,” I inform him.

He’s desperate, oh so desperate for money. If he doesn’t take this job, he’ll be selling himself on the streets. “I think you’d be a lovely model, you know. You’re definitely handsome enough for it,” I tell him, walking out from behind my counter. “‘Your height?”

“Six-foot two.”

“Weight?”

“Probably around one-eighty?”

“Name?”

“Vincent. Vincent Rivera.”

“Do you have a place to sleep, Vincent?”

“For a few weeks, then they’ll kick me out.”

Vincent is a nice name, if we’re being honest. The poor thing must be sick of the constant anxiety that he’ll be thrown out like garbage. I’ve only talked to him twice, but he seems to have potential that bad luck is stripping away from him.

I’m not going to let myself be close to him. I gave up on maintaining friendships years and years ago. They all die, and it’s tiring to find new people every few decades. Relationships are worse, though.

I had the sweetest man back in the late eighteen-hundreds. I was living in New York City when I met Edmund, and I had watched him sitting on his balcony, cigarette in his mouth and his dark hair blowing in the wind. Though we were nearly always in hiding, we lasted for decades.

I remember there was one night where we had gone out to the nice restaurant on Pearl Street. He had a wine glass filled with something aged from the sixteen-hundreds, and he wore the most lovely grey suit. As we laughed, we were watched by the waiter. He came over to our table, took our dishes off our table and asked, “Why have you two been so close to each other? That is not an acceptable thing for males to do.”

I asked him what his problem is, and he gave us the bill and told us to leave while we still could. I looked over to Edmund, who was frantically taking coins out of his pocket. He motioned for me to get up and out, and while still confused, I obeyed.

Edmund told me to not challenge them, as often their first instinct is violence or confrontation. He said that people don’t take kindly to people like him and I. I asked him why, but he never told me.

We stayed together for a good four decades, and I watched him grow old. The day I saw him in his coffin, ghost-like, I decided to never get close to the human race again.

All Vincent is to me and will be is a working model, and if I become attached to him, I will fire him and force him to never contact me again. Then, I’ll move to a different city, start a different fashion line, and isolate myself more and more. When they figure out how to make it so you can order things off the computer, I’ll move to the Kerguelen Islands.

“Come back tomorrow around five. I’ll dress you and make you pretty. Make you famous,” I say quietly. I doubt Vincent wants fame.

Before he can respond, I hear a discomforting crash.

Someone threw a brick through my store’s front window. Again.

I duck behind the counter, and shout for Vincent to hide with me. He doesn’t really deserve any glass shards in his face, although his previous accusation of me never being homeless rubbed me the wrong way.

“Why’s this happening, Nikolai?” He asks, terrified but unfazed. I wonder if it’s the same group that did it last time.

“I don’t know,” I exclaim, “But, it’s nothing new. I don’t bother with getting upset about it, I have enough money to replace the window.” Unfortunately, I actually know exactly why they do this, and as much as I hate to admit it, it does upset me.

I think a passerby may have noticed the crash, because after hiding for a few minutes a single cop looks down on us. “Stand up, you two,” She says. We raise our hands just a bit over our heads, and bring ourselves from behind the counter. “Tell me what happened here. Some child pointed out to me that there were a few people with bricks and rocks surrounding the entryway.”

“I was making plans with him,” I say, motioning my hand to Vincent. “Heard a crash and ducked.”

“Is this the first time this has happened?”

“No.”

“When was the last time?”

“Last year, mid-summer.”

“Do you have insurance on the property?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll find whoever did this, and charge them. I need your number, for the chance that you and they will be in court.”

I nod, and give the officer my home and business numbers. I really don’t like interacting with the cops. They all seem to have a bias against Russians. I was born before the U.S.S.R was even thought of, I’m not the person to blame the Cold war on. I gave up on trying to hide my accent years ago.

Vincent slides back down to the floor, and I follow after the cop is out of my sight. “How do you live like, like this?” He asks, perplexed by how nonchalant I am about the situation.

“Nothing unexpected,” I say. “If you really are so scared of the glass, go through the back door. It’ll be cleaned up by the time you’re back tomorrow. Have a nice night.”

He takes his leave without a goodbye, but to be fair I did essentially push him out. I probably should’ve asked him to say while I put a layer of temporary plastic over the broken window. Honestly, I kind of wish he got struck by some of the glass so I could get some blood. I need to be more consistent with my feeding, as this fasting-binging isn’t doing me well at all. God, how I miss being human.

I was turned at the age of twenty-five, and while that blessed me with a never-ending youthful appearance, it’s done more psychological damage than anything good.

When I realized what had happened to me, when I saw the red bite marks on my neck and felt the extra length coming to my canines, I knew I had to leave my family. During the night, I packed all that was worth packing, and disappeared. I then headed left toward the coast of Europe, and settled myself into Nantes, France for about twenty years. I then took a ship to America, the furthest away I could get from my family. They would never find me now.

I found myself tied up in this story, and thinking of it made cleaning up the broken glass much faster. I probably missed a spot, and someone will step on it and sue me. Whatever.

It’s darker now, dark enough that I can walk freely outside without the fear of burning up. The hunger for blood is building up, and oh, how I would love to feed on the folks who had yet again vandalised my shop. I should’ve gotten them before, should have tracked their scent. I don’t know if I’d make them suffer in immortality, or simply let them die in my arms.

Today’s outfit is all designed by me. A cropped black turtleneck, my faux fur jacket, and a pair of cuffed, distressed jeans. Personally, I believe that my sense of fashion is quite nice, though some may disagree. As a fashion designer, I’m allowed to experiment.

I walk out of my shop, and my God, do my eyes deceive me.

The man on the news is walking about, same stupid suit and same stupid hair. He’s not doing anything bad right now, other than existing, and having such hideous style. This is the best target I’ve seen in months. Such a terrible man, so full of despair.

Mostly, I want to feed off of him because I’m very, very tired of having to see him on my television all the time. Also, it’s been awhile since I’ve fed.

Out dearest pastor-doctor makes eye contact with me, and scowls. Perhaps he knows who I am, perhaps he’s scared. Oh yes, sir, it’s me, the feared homosexual vampire of Southern California. Hear me roar.

He’s walking down the street with a sheet of paper in his right hand and a cigar in his left. From what I can tell, he’s headed to the same news station, the only one my basic cable lets me watch. They just can’t get enough of that guy, can they?

If he knows who I am, I can’t lure him in, I have to catch him off guard.

He’s stuck at a street corner, waiting for the crosswalk to be safe to pass. Quietly, I bring myself behind him, and drag him back into the alley on the corner. This alley is empty, something I haven’t seen in a long time. He’s thrashing, yet to be sedated. And, he’s very strong, strong to the point where it’s hard to hold him down.

He punches and kicks, trying his absolute best to make me retract my arms, which are enclosed around his torso. His voice is booming, but no one can hear him but me and himself. When I go to bite him, he punches me in the face, and I can feel the bruise forming.

Eventually, pastor-doctor had gotten tired, which certainly makes pinning him down a breeze. His blood almost feels tainted, feels as if what I’m drinking is to poison me. There’s blood on my fur coat, but I don’t care anymore.

Pastor-Doctor is void of life after a few minutes. I pick up his wallet, which contains his driver’s license, a business card, and some crumpled-up money. His name is Eugene Fisher. He’s from the Cathedral of Our Lady of The Angels. His hometown is Albany, New York. He’s been divorced twice, with no children ever coming to visit him.

I wonder who will tell that news station that their pride and joy won’t be coming to work again?

I take off my jacket and carry it in my arms. The way I’m holding it makes it less obvious that I just fed off somebody. Oh well, I doubt that anyone would miss him anyway.

Back home, I have about fifteen unfinished products and cobwebs forming in the corners. This is probably the biggest mess my apartment has been in in a long, long time. Usually, I make sure it's virtually spotless.

Instead of sleeping through the night like humans, I try to make myself be productive and finish a few of the articles of clothing I have pinned to mannequins. Since this is a studio apartment, those mannequins seem to watch me in my sleep. Even if they have no heads.

One of the pieces is a black cape, with golden accents and trimming. I think I’ll make Vincent wear this tomorrow when I see him. He’ll look good in it, I’m sure.

By four AM, I’ve finished half of what I had to, and I’ve set the alarm on my clock for two PM, and go to sleep in my makeshift coffin.

In the afternoon, I realized that I’ve slept through my alarm and it is now three-thirty, and panic ensures. I rush to make myself look somewhat presentable, which probably isn’t working. But, I’m not the one who has to be pretty today.

Sitting in my shop, I wait for Vincent to show up. The weather is overcast, with the chill of autumn blowing through the grey skies. I’d last outside for a couple hours.

“Nikolai?”

I lift my head up and crane it to look at Vincent, who has shown up in the most casual outfit possible. He’s a blank canvas. I can make him look however I want to.

“Oh, you showed up. Come with me,” I say.

I make Vincent sit down on a stool out back while I chose his clothes. After finding him a few outfits, I make him sit still long enough to let me put a little bit of makeup on his eyes. I had to hold his head with my free hand, forcing him to not instinctively turn away. “Are you sure this is needed?” He asks.

“No, but I wanted to do it,” I reply.

I have him in the black cape I finished last night, a white dress shirt, and black and red pinstripe pants. His neon green hair was stylishly tousled, beach waves precisely placed in different directions. He looks handsome, stunning even.

I motion Vincent to stand in front of the white screen I have put up, while I set up my camera. “Okay,” I say. “Pose for me.”

“How?” He asks.

“Give me attitude. Confidence. A bit of spunk in your motions, y’know?”

“But they’re still photos.”

“Oh, how clever you are. I mean to give some sort of feeling to your body language.”

Vincent definitely serves looks after some encouragement. Hand on his hip, back arched, giving me a face of ego. A face that says “Hey, I’m Vincent Rivera, and I’m going to take over the modeling scene.”

“Perfect,” I exclaim. “Absolutely perfect. The posture, the face, God, everything.”

Vincent looks ecstatic to be told he did good. He must not hear that often. All I can feel is sympathy for the kid. I don’t know anything about his past, but I doubt it was that safe and loving. “I need to get these processed,” I state, picking up my wallet. “But, here’s your pay.”

He picks up the two hundred-dollar bills I’ve set out in front of him, and examines them like he’s never seen money before. “Thank you, so so much. Thank you,” He says excitedly. The boy runs off, and it’s as if you can see a trail of joy behind him.

Now, I don’t understand how he’s so happy about this, but as long as it’s doing him well, I don't mind. My store is closed today due to the state of the window, and at this point I’m just standing here for no reason. Hopefully the window gets its replacement soon.

I take my camera over to the photo processing centre. The lady working tells me that the pictures will be ready in the size I chose in a few days, and asks me for the costs and for my number. I guess that the amount of people that have my number is supposed to make me feel popular.

When I get home, my apartment is freezing. I’m also very, very bored. I don’t want to start any new projects, because I am saving the fabric I have left for better-planned things.

At an impulse, I call Vincent. He had written his number down on a sheet of paper, stating that he was allowed to have his own telephone outside of the folks he lives with’s own. After about four rings, he picks up.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Vin, it’s me.”

“Oh, Nikolai! What’s up, why are you calling?”

“Nothing’s wrong, but, would you like to come over for some drinks or something? Celebrating our first shoot, perhaps.”

“Yeah, yeah. That would get me out of the house. I’ll be over in like, half an hour, okay? I need to find where you put your address again, and I have no car.”

“Alright, see you later.”

Vincent appears to have a tendency to not say “Goodbye”. Understandable, though.

I clear up the parts of my apartment he’ll likely end up in, to create the illusion that as of recent, I’m not a hoarder. That means, putting the discarded boxes of fabric to the sides, sweeping up stray pieces of glitter and sequins, you know, the usual. As I hear him knock on the door, I regret inviting him.

“Welcome,” I say, motioning my hand to direct Vincent into my home. He smiles, and lets himself in. “So, what’s up?” He asks.

“Not much,” I reply, taking out two bottles of alcohol out of the fridge, one vodka, one rosé. “Just working on clothes, my job, y’know.”

“Do you ever have free time?”

“Well, yes, what am I doing right now?”

“Oh, yeah, right. Sorry, sorry.”

Why is he apologizing for that? Everyone’s mind goes blank sometimes. Nothing bad or anything. “Don’t say sorry for that, Vin,” I tell him.

There’s always this unexpected look on his face when I call him “Vin”, or even by his full name. It’s like he never hears it, forgets it. I pour the drinks into some old wine glasses I took from France. “Those glasses look ancient,” He observes. “Were they passed down in your family or something?”

I am amazed by how clueless this kid is. How does he still think I’m human? Is he blind? Do the slit eyes, pointed ears, and fangs simply not exist to him? “Well, No,” I say, baring my teeth a little. There’s no point in hiding the truth from him.

“Then where’d you get them?”

Oh my God, he’s so moronic. “I took them with me from when I lived in Nantes, back in the seventeen-hundreds, I believe?” If he doesn’t get the hint by now, I’m going to lose my mind.

“Seventeen-hundreds- Oh, what? You’re joking me, right?” He stutters out. I laugh and tell him, “No, I’m not joking. Took you long enough to notice.”

“You’re not gonna suck my blood, right?”

I love that question. Everyone gets so scared, everyone thinks you’re evil, and it’s hilarious. I get most of my blood from rats and republicans (almost the same thing, really). The disgruntled look on his face is really the nail on the coffin.

“No, no,” I say. “Why would I do that to you?”

“Well, aren’t you supposed to be bloodthirsty? Dangerous?”

“We aren’t that closely similar to the portrayals of us in fiction. We do indeed have fangs, but I can see my reflection, I show up in film, and most importantly, I’m not unreasonably hostile.”

Honestly, I’ve never hated a piece of literature more than I hate Dracula. It’s all wrong, all of it! Minus the appearance, modern vampires barely have resemblance to him. I wish we could transform into bats, that seems more entertaining than existing as a pale, feral, humanoid creature whose only power is immortality.

“Oh,” He mumbles, taking another sip of his rosé. “So we’re good?”

“Yeah.”

A couple of hours later, and Vincent and I are absolute messes. I don’t like drunk me. He’s a bit of an oversharer. Vincent, however, is funny and a generally good person to get wasted with. He’s trying to convince me that he’s a werewolf, but that’s just stupid. Those don’t exist.  
And, that’s all I remember from last night.

Here I am, in bed with Vincent beside of me, awake at an ungodly hour (nine AM). I feel bruised and it hurts to move too much. From what I can tell, whatever happened was consensual.

I get out of my bed and open the window, but close the blinds. I light a cigarette to calm my nerves, because right now, I am on the verge of panic.

“Niko?” Vincent asks for me. It feels like I could get decapitated and it would feel better than this.  
“Yeah?”

“What happened?

“Take a hint.”

“Oh, oh God, are you okay?” Vincent’s just as terrified as I am, which may be a good sign.

“I’m fine, you?” I reply casually. No point in getting worked up over something like this. No point at all.

“Fine? How are you fine?”

“I don’t know, just, just go put some more clothes on.”

Vincent jumps out of my bed, walking straight to the chair where his pants are shirt were last set. He puts them back on, not managing to look at me during the entire process. “I’m so, so sorry for this, I really am,” He conveys.

“Stop apologizing for everything, seriously,” I command.

He shuts up there and then, trying his best to leave as soon as he can.

“Wait! If you’re still interested, I need a model for a night photoshoot in October. Halloween coming around, costume-esque clothes,” I call for him.

“I’ll think about it.”

He then slams the door behind him. I don’t know if I’m more mad at him or mad at myself. I’m foolish, absolutely, utterly foolish for letting him in.

It’s been a few days, and there’s no sign of Vincent at all, nothing. All that lingers of him is the prints of him I have put up at my store. This has gotten me extra amounts of customers, the fact that they get to see a preview of what they could buy now. Maybe I’ll become filthy rich and act like the men I feed off of. Entitled, so entitled.

  
Today also marks as the day I run out of fabric. Well, I would go to where I usually do, but they dislike me now. This brings to me another way to use Vincent to get what I want. I’ll get him to fetch the fabric for me.

Wait, this is absolutely idiotic. Why would I give them more money if they preach such disgusting views?

After some much-needed critical thinking and a nap, I’ve set out to find another fabric company. The Fabric Fantasy hasn’t got anything on me. It may have the largest array of materials in all of California, but I don’t care.

Fabric World? Materials Galore? These both seem small. I walked by a larger store called “Buttons and Bows”, but it was in a sketchy part of town.

On the outskirts of downtown, closer to Echo Park, I manage to find a decent store. It’s called “Pins and Needles”, and it’s large and clean. Walking in there, the shop seems vibrant- Everything has an artsy touch to it. They have everything I wrote down as if I were buying groceries.

The staff are also total sweethearts. One of the cashiers, a bright, young girl, gushed over me and talked about how much she would like to wear my clothes, but her parents won’t let her. She said she didn’t know why, and she hated what she is restricted to. Her yellow sweater under her uniforming vest was clearly made in a sweatshop.

On my way home, two men grab me, and pull me into yet another alleyway. Just my luck, I guess.

One of the men tries to stab me with a Swiss army knife, while the other holds me down. Unfortunately for them, my legs are free, and I quickly knee the man with the knife in his delicates. his knife ends up on the ground beside him, and as he recovers, his friend lets go of me to do the job himself. However, I’m fast enough to be able to make an escape before he can stab me.

After sprinting the whole way home with my fabrics messily stuffed into a bag, I am too exhausted to bring myself to do anything. I would design some new things, but even that seems like too much energy.

All I can bring myself to do is cry. Why are people like me so hated? Why am I a target for harassment? Amidst all these tears, I come to a realization that makes them stop flowing at an instant.

Those two men were the friends of the man I fed off of at the bar.

Oh.

Well, hopefully they didn’t call the cops to track me down.

I get a phone call from Vincent at about nine PM.

“Hello?”

“I watched you almost get killed, you okay?”

“I didn’t ‘almost get killed’, Vin, all I had to do to get free was knee a guy in his groin and run.”

“Can’t I just express concern?”

“Sure?”

“Well, whatever. Clearly you don’t wanna have anything to do with me now.”

“I never said that! God, just, just come over so we can talk this out in person, please.”

“Fine.”

Vincent then angrily hangs up the phone. I’ll be expecting him in half an hour, again.

He shows up, slams open the door, and plops himself down on the couch, all without a single “Hello"which he is usually good at remembering to say. “What’s up?” He says in a snarky tone.

“I see you’ve made yourself comfortable,” I reply to him, an equal amount of bitterness on my tongue. “Nice to know that after a couple of weeks of knowing me, you think you’re entitled.”

“Hey, I’m not the one who got angry after being asked if they’re okay, after, oh, I don’t know, almost getting stabbed.”

“You wanna know why those people were trying to stab me? Cause’ I literally killed their friend. I sucked him dry of whatever life he had left.”

Vincent is starting to look frightened of me. I guess the whole speech I gave him about us not being bloodthirsty never sank in. “You’re, you’re a monster!” He cries.

“I’m not a monster, you idiot-”

Then I notice his body morphing.

Fur is growing all over his body, his face becoming animalistic in image. He’s a werewolf, something that I thought were the works of fiction. “You’re hypocritic for calling me a monster when you hold this kind of power,” I say, trying to keep the illusion that I’m calm. That seeing Vincent like this doesn’t make me want to run away as far as I can. Perhaps, I could return to what’s now the U.S.S.R.

He can’t talk anymore, just making low growls occasionally. I have him cornered against the wall, as hidden as possible so he can’t destroy my things. “Try to calm down, beast,” I say. He tries to claw me with his enlarged paws. “Hey now, you mustn’t do that. See, you’re panting. Try to calm down.”

After an hour of nursing hm, he collapses to the floor. Did he die?

“Vincent,” I call, concern in my tone. “Can you hear me? Are you dead?”

I realize that he’s simply becoming human again. The transformation is grotesque, watching the wolf-like form recede into his body. All of the extra hair goes back into hiding. Now, it just seems like he’s taking a nap on my floor.

I bend down to his height and lightly push his shoulder. He wakes up, sounding and looking disoriented. “What happened?” He asks.

“Turns out, you transform into a wolf when you get mad.”

“Oh God, you weren’t supposed to see that happen.”

“It’s fine, just don’t call me a ‘monster’ when you’re one of them yourself.”

I help him get up, and walk him over to my couch. I bring him some water, make sure that he’s breathing steadily, and safe. “Why are you taking care of me?” He questions me.

“Because you just transformed to a wolf, and back to normal. Of course I’m going to be concerned. It’s not normal.”

“You think I’m not aware of the abnormally? I was born into a canine bloodline, this curse has made me miserable. You know, once in elementary school, we went on a camping field trip overnight. I got mad at a kid cause’ he tried stealing my snacks, and ended up turning into an animal.”

“What’d they do to you?”

“The kid I was mad at had to go to the psych ward for trauma, and my family and I had to relocate to another state to escape the cops. We left everything in Jersey, and we had to live in a van in Utah until high school.”

“Why didn’t you stay in Utah?”

“Fear of being caught again, plus everyone in my family converted to Mormonism but me. They were doing the most horrific rituals to ‘cure’ themselves of their werewolf blood, and while I wish I wasn’t who I am, I couldn’t bring myself to do what they did.”

I just feel so awful for the kid. He’s in a similar situation to me. Alone and beastly. “Vincent,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

“‘Sorry’ doesn’t change who I am,” He replies, sulking.

“I know that, but you could try to accept it. Being a werewolf doesn’t make you a bad person, just like me being a vampire doesn’t make me a bad person.”

“I can’t accept that.”

“Yes you can. You’ll be okay, Vin. If you really want it to stop, then you should first learn to control your anger.”

“I’m not an angry person, though. It just happens at the worst of times.”

I take his hand in mine. “Then make the worst times stop,” I tell him. “Have you been stressed about the whole house situation?”

“Yeah,” He replies. “They were actually gonna kick me out tomorrow, so I have nowhere to go-”

“Pack your things and live here. It’s free, plus I’m going to need you around for this next project.”

His brown eyes have an unsure but hopeful look in them. “You sure that’s okay with you?” He quizzes.

“I’m absolutely sure. Stay here as long as you wish.”

He then hugs me.

“Thank you for everything, Nikolai. Thank you for being so patient, so kind.” He sounds the most genuinely happy I’ve ever heard from him. I awkwardly hug him back.

“Go get your stuff,” I command. “Come back tomorrow, and I’ll have the place all neat and clearer for you. I’ll also tell you about the new project.” Vincent nods his head, and rushes back to his home to get all of his things, and say goodbye to his folks for the last time.

It’s now the day Vincent moves in, and I’m cleaning like a maid. I had to move a lot of my junk from one corner to another, so Vincent has a place to store his junk.

I get another call from him, this time from a payphone at the bottom of the apartment building.

“Hey.”

“Hey, could you help me drag some of my stuff up the stairs? I keep trying but it keeps going back down to the bottom.”

“Yeah, I’ll be down in a minute.”

I look down the stairwell, and see Vincent with a few suitcases, and some other gidgets he probably took with him on a whim. He calls out for me, followed by a grunt and a crash.

“Idiot,” I call him. “You should’ve told me you had this much stuff.”

“I thought I would get it all up myself.”

“Oh, I bet.”

I help Vincent get all of his stuff-clothes, family memories, and a cot that I promised to replace with a mattress at some point. Once we get everything in my apartment, he lets himself fall onto my bed. “So,” He says. “What’s the project?”

“I’m going to make high-fashion Halloween costumes,” I declare. “You know, a vampire and a werewolf, but fancy.”

“How are you going to go with that?”

“Well, I’m going to make the things, you’re going to model the werewolf costume, and I’m going to sell them. Now, let me take your measurements.”

While I write the measurements down, I hear something like a mob outside of my house. Looking out the window, I see a swarm of people with picket signs and malicious intentions. The signs read homophobic things, such as “Gays suck life from our CHILDREN!” and “God hates fags”. Vincent looks through the curtains and asks, “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to set things straight,” I respond.

I open up the curtains, then the windows. I take a deep breath, and let an improv speech run out of me.

“Ladies, gentlemen, whatever you may be,” I begin. “Yes, I am a homosexual man. Yes, that does mean I don’t conform to the traditional styles of relationship.”

Some protesters yell “Monster!” and other dehumanizing terms at me.

“AIDS, or any sexually transmitted disease for that matter, did not originate from gay people. That simply makes no sense. Who you love doesn’t change your DNA, how human you are, anything.”

At this note, I start to hear the gunshots.

“Get down!” I yell. The bullets keep coming, crashing through my windows and putting holes in the walls. “Vin, crawl over to the phone and call the police, please.” Vincent obeys, quickly getting to the landline and punching in those magic numbers.

I keep my head down as the people outside keep firing. Those without guns are cheering, cheering for the attempted murders of Vincent and I. I listen to Vincent frantically tell 911 what’s happening, something that should have been called for beforehand. After a minute, he hangs up, and tells me that they’re on their way. “You’d think that the people out there would have ran out of bullets by now,” He complains.

“They have to be using military-grade weapons. Machine guns,” I reply.

After a few more minutes of waiting for this madness to stop, I can hear police sirens, a helicopter, and an ambulance. I never expected there to be such a reaction from the authorities. I bet these rotten, rotten people will be let off with only a warning.

There’s a knock on my door, which I go up to answer. The men at the door identify themselves as the Los Angeles Police Department, and ask to come inspect the property. I abide despite not wanting anyone but Vincent in my house right now. “This is quite an amount of damage,” One officer says, notebook in hand. “Say, do you two know why this has happened?”

“I don’t know,” I respond. Vincent shakes his head to indicate he has no clue either.

“There’s been a surge in homophobic attacks since the recent assassination of Eugene Fisher.”

I feel myself sweating, thinking about how much trouble I could be in if they find out that I was the one who killed him.

“Do you happen to know anything about that?”

“No,” I fire back instantly. “I noticed that one of the men on the news was gone, though.”

After a while, vampires basically have no DNA footprint. No fingerprints, no identifying chromosomes in one’s spit, nothing. I remain paranoid though, because of the obvious marks left on his neck. “He had a wound that looked like a bite, nothing else,” Says the second policeman, who’s walking uncomfortably close to me. “Looks like your teeth.”

“Honestly, sir, I have no clue how this man died. I know my teeth may point evidence towards me, but all I knew him as was a man on television.”

The officers sigh, giving up on cracking down on me. “You have a warning,” They say. One of them responds to a message received via walkie-talkie, and tells me, “We need to weed out who’s simply spreading hate and those trying to cause harm, so court will be delayed for a while. We’ll call you when we have a date. No need to give us your number, because we already have it. Have a nice day, make sure to clean up all of the broken glass.”

After they’ve left, Vincent and I make an effort to pick up every broken shard, and save it. Perhaps to make a point, or because we don’t know where the local garbage disposal site is. “Well, I’m going to start working on the outfits, you do whatever,” I state.

“Are you making any jewelry with these?” Vincent asls.”Because I can help you with that.”

“Really? You don’t seem like the kind of guy to work with things like that. I would like to have some jewelry in this collection.”

“Good! Let me show you what I can do.”

He makes the most stunning pieces I’ve seen in a while in only a few hours. The ones for the vampire collection are made using fake rubies and metal. While all I’d be able to make with that is a simple ring, he manages to make an entire set of jewelry. “Those are perfect,” I tell him. “They’ll suit the vampire costume so well.”

“Why, thank you,” He says, as he turns his head to the clock. “My God, it’s almost two AM, I should go to bed.”

“Bed? At night?”

“Yes, Nikolai, at night. Remember, most people aren’t nocturnal.”

“Well, goodnight then.”

“Night.”

I become so invested into the upper half of the werewolf costume that I never notice Vincent’s snoring until I’m tired myself. I rest my head at seven AM, just before sunrise.

During my slumber, I find myself dreaming about what I forgot to think about when I let Vincent in. How he’s going to die. How this will never be worth it.

I’m insane for not pushing him away.

At about two PM, I wake up. Vincent is working on the jewelry for the werewolf costume. I walk over to his workspace, him not noticing my liveliness. “You need to leave,” I say.

He looks over to me, a concerned look on his face. “What?” He asks.

“I said, you need to leave.”

“Why?”

“I told myself when we met that I would never, ever, let you in. You’re going to die someday, Vincent. I’m not. I can’t stand you being here any longer.”

I’m trembling. I’m choked up. I’m showing him what he should never see.

“Nikolai, you need to calm down.”

“I’m not calming down! I can’t love! I can’t let everything get stripped away from me!”

At this point, I’m full on sobbing. I hate myself for feeling. For caring about the human race.

“Then turn me.”

“What?”

“Turn me, put me into immortality.”

“Why should I do that?”

“I want to see the future with you, Niko. I don’t want you to be heartbroken. Of course the choice is yours to make, but I’m willing to go through it. Just try to calm down, okay?”

He comes over to me, making me sit back down on my bed. He’s holding me, holding me in an embrace meant to soothe my nerves. “Are, are you sure?” I ask.

“I’m absolutely sure,” He replies.

The process of becoming a vampire is quickly done, and has to be precise. One step wrong, and they’re dead. “Get your neck ready, I’m just going to go get some towels to soak up the blood,” I inform Vincent. I feel like a doctor.

Somehow, he’s not nervous at all. If I had gotten bitten in the same way as he’s going to be, I’d still be in total panic. “You’re one-hundred percent, fully, totally sure you want this?” I ask again.

“I’m sure, I’m sure.”

“Here goes nothing, then.”

I bite Vincent’s neck, but I only drink about half the blood I would if I were to kill him. “God, ow,” He mumbles. Once he gets pale enough I take a knife out of my pocket and inflicted a wound on my own flesh, letting it bleed freely. I lay Vincent down onto the bed, and hold my arm above him so the blood will fall into his mouth.

“Keep it open, Vin. Sooner or later the hunger will take over,” I say softly. Surely enough, after a taste he grabs my arm, sucking the blood out of the fresh cut. “Good, good. You’re learning well.” When I feel myself getting lightheaded, I pull my arm back up, and place a cloth over it. Vincent is out cold. He’ll wake up and notice the new features- his fangs, his slit eyes, his pointed ears.

At about ten PM, he wakes up with a wince. He must’ve pierced his tongue with his new fangs. “It’s over,” I assure him. “You’re immortal now.”

“Thank you, again.”

“You need more rest, my dear.”

“But I don’t want to sleep.”

“Still, it’s better for you. I’m going to work on the clothes, you rest. Love you.”

He groans. “Love you too.”

 

After the Halloween costumes, we’ve reached global success. We were invited to New York Fashion Week, and we’re being treated almost like celebrities. With our fortune, we bought an actual house, with more than one room and everything.

Vincent said he was going to marry me when he saw the day where we could. He even got us a ring as the AIDS crisis was slowing down.

Immortal life is finally good.  



End file.
